Drop Dead Punk

by Rich Zahradnik

  “No, I don’t think you will either. Slive is anti-corruption—”

  “Know what he does.”

  “He told me he was using Dodd to get information out of Samantha.”

  “Why, if he’s not after Sam?”

  “He’s after you. Says you’re running a drugs and extortion racket out of the One-Nine.”

  Jimmy arrived at the table with two more beers and Callahan took both of them. “Thanks. Open the backdoor to the alley for me, will ya?”

  “I surely will.” Jimmy smiled at Taylor. “A little Golden Gloves boxing tonight.” He walked to the rear of Nelligan’s.

  Callahan toasted. “To the truth.”

  “What is?”

  “Did you wonder why a shoofly on the Lower Eastside is working a corruption case in another precinct?”

  Taking this awfully calmly.

  “I did,” Taylor said. “That’s just one thing I need to check. He didn’t tell me much. Just claimed what you’re involved in is bigger than what’s going on in the Ninth.”

  “Strong stuff. The kind of stuff that can get you shot in the face.” Callahan said it without menace.

  “That’s not an original play, not after Serpico.”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  Taylor read people well. Thousands of interviews had taught him the skill. Yet right now, when the stakes really could be a bullet in his face, he couldn’t tell where Callahan was going. Was he threatening Taylor? Slive? He wasn’t exploding like an innocent man might. Something was off, and at the same time Taylor would bet his life—was betting his life—that Callahan wasn’t the guy.

  Which meant it was time to play his next card—the business card—and gauge Callahan’s reaction. Because this was as much about Schmidt as it was about Callahan. With a minimum of fuss—Jimmy and the old man might still be watching—he put the card on the table. He told Callahan the whole story of John Mortelli.

  Callahan shook his head. “Someone’s going to an awful lot of trouble to put me in the picture.”

  “I agree. You see, there’s a problem with the business card end of this. I’m certain it wasn’t you in Mortelli’s apartment.”

  Callahan set his beer down, looking surprised for the first time. “Go on.”

  “Whoever dropped the card, he didn’t count on Mortelli giving the man’s description to someone, a friend of Mortelli’s in the neighborhood. The description doesn’t match you, not in the least.”

  “You have the description?” He actually sounds impressed. Taylor flipped the notebook. While he did, Callahan signaled to Jimmy. “Two of the Jameson.”

  Taylor looked up. “Can’t have a—”

  “Better than a shot in the face.” Callahan smiled, and again Taylor couldn’t read his meaning.

  He paraphrased Rayban’s words. “The guy was tall, skinny, with a bullet-shaped head and medium-length black and gray hair.”

  “Always wished I was taller. But definitely not me.”

  “Description matches a cop named Schmidt who’s running the gang in the Ninth. Samantha’s sure it must be him.”

  Callahan knocked back the shot. “Samantha’s not wrong much. I’ll retire a sergeant in uniform. She’ll make detective. If they ever let her.”

  “We need to figure out what’s really going on for that to ever happen.”

  “You’ve got a dead man talking to your source. What good is it?”

  “I don’t work in a court of law. I work in the court of facts. In less than a week, I … Samantha and I have done some good reporting. I was stupid. I had some pieces but not enough to write a watertight story. I put out this half-assed version in the hopes that someone would talk. Instead, I got my boss nearly beat to death. This points to cops in the Ninth. Except when it doesn’t. I need to fill in the holes. I need to get someone on the record about the Ninth. That Slive won’t do. Instead he points at you.”

  Callahan stood up. “Drink your whiskey and come with me.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You need to know when not to ask questions and when to just move.”

  Callahan strolled past the old man, patting him on the shoulder, and waved at Jimmy. “On my tab.” Taylor downed the shot and followed, coughing.

  “Off to the woodshed,” Jimmy said. Laughter.

  The door was propped open by a chunk of cinderblock. Callahan leaned back against the brick wall opposite. His hands were jammed in the pockets of his pants.

  Taylor was confused. And worried. He’d thought he was making progress with Callahan. “Look, I already said it couldn’t have been you in the apartment.”

  “It’s not that. I don’t want anyone else to even have a chance of hearing this. Loud music’s not enough. Slive was closing in on the dirty cops in the Ninth. Must have been. Maybe he already had the screws into Schmidt. Maybe he needed Dodd to lock it down. Schmidt invents a bigger fish to get Slive off his ass. A guy like Slive loves cops turning on cops, so what would be juicier than getting Dodd to work Samantha to string up her own father? That’s why Schmidt dropped a card with my name on it.”

  “Eventually Slive’s got to figure out it was a distraction.”

  “Maybe after giving Schmidt enough time to get his business in order. Probably why Dodd was killed. This is all about the Ninth. They’re using Slive’s ambition—and he is a man of large ambition. They’ve got him chasing shadows.” He took out a pack of Parliaments and lit up. “I just want to know Sam’s safe. I’ve checked everywhere and everyone I can think of.” He exhaled smoke. “I can’t do anything until I know she’s okay.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Talk with Schmidt.”

  “Just talk?”

  “We’ll see. He came after me. Time I returned the favor.”

  “What about going to Slive?”

  “Need to be careful there. If I screw with IA, I’m guilty—no questions asked. That much has changed in the department.”

  “That’s a lot of power.”

  “It is … too much when you’re on the wrong end of it. I need to shut down Slive’s source. I can’t shut Schmidt down, not until Sam is safe. After that, we’ll see.”

  “If I can confirm the details of what Top Deck is up to, the department will have to act.”

  “Good luck with that. Sounds like your half-story muddied up the waters pretty bad.”

  “Yes, it did.” Muddied up so many things. “I need to convince someone to break ranks. A cop like Dodd was.”

  “No. You need someone Schmidt’s taking money off of. Get them to talk. That’s what Slive should be doing, rather than playing games with Dodd and Samantha and me. Find someone who’s paying into Schmidt’s pad.”

  “Will you let me know if you talk to her?”

  Callahan dropped the cigarette, put it out with his toe and lit another. He eyed Taylor through gray smoke. “Not sure. I’d imagine she’s pretty angry at you right now.” He walked to the doorway.

  “I’ll let you know if I get anything.”

  “Do that.” Smoke trailed Callahan as he entered the bar.

  Taylor took the alley to the street and the street to the subway. It was now his job to find someone paying off Schmidt. To help Samantha and Mick Callahan—to keep the father from doing something crazy or worse. He owed Novak too. Rayban and Sally. Cramly even. Debts all over the place. He needed something on the record, a story that the stations would run and the papers would rush to pick up.

  First, he’d make one stop along the way. He would visit First National City Bank of New York before it closed for the day. John Mortelli’s letter, with its list of serial numbers from the bonds, was in his pocket next to Callahan’s business card. After, he’d spend all this time searching for Top Deck victims.

  Chapter 24

  Clifford Harmon of First National City was a small wrinkled man sitting behind a big oak desk. His hands stayed folded the entire time Taylor recounted the story of the briefcase. He remained in that positi
on after Taylor finished talking, tapping his thumbs together in a slow steady beat. A huge picture behind Harmon depicted a clipper ship cutting through steep, foam-crested waves. Why had this prunified little man picked that painting? He didn’t look like he did anything but sit behind the desk in the biggest office on the floor, lording over the bank’s municipal bond department.

  The thumbs stopped. “That’s quite a fantastical story. Even in these fraught times for the city’s finances.”

  “I saw the briefcase. The bonds.”

  “I could take your word for that. But I don’t really take anyone’s word for anything. I need documentation.”

  “I’ve got the serial numbers. Ask Mortelli about them?”

  “I cannot. He no longer works for this bank.”

  Taylor stopped writing and looked up from his notebook. “Because of the bonds?”

  “No, of course not. I told you that story was fantastical. Mr. Mortelli’s work wasn’t up to this bank’s very high standards.”

  “You’re going to cover this up, aren’t you?” Taylor pulled a copy of John Mortelli’s note out of his pocket. “Here. On the back. He lists the serial numbers in the briefcase. Those are like fingerprints for a bond, right? What would happen if these numbers were made public?”

  Taylor put the sheet on the desk. Harmon’s thumbs started up again, beating a quicker time. He leaned over the sheet to look but didn’t seem to want to touch the paper. Finally, as if worried about fingerprints, he picked the copy up by the corner and left the room. He was gone a long time. Taylor checked out all the nautical paintings hung on the dark, wood-paneled walls. Ships thundering cannon fire at each other. Ships wheeling into the sunlight. Ships racing to harbor ahead of a storm black as death. Maybe Harmon was some kind of Walter Mitty, sitting here, and at the same time standing on the decks of these vessels, ordering fire, turning hard from a giant wave, commanding the crew, instead of twiddling his thumbs while the city burned.

  As the minutes ticked by, he slumped into Harmon’s leather guest chair. He was anxious to get moving. The bonds were a loose end. And he hated leaving any story hanging loose. But he wanted to get on to his real mission—to follow Schmidt and hope he came up with something. He wished he knew where Samantha was, wished he could have her help. Two on a tail was better than one. That wasn’t the only reason he missed her. Being a fuck-up was lonely work. He was desperate for company.

  Face facts. Maybe, but only maybe, Schmidt collects from someone. Maybe, just maybe, that person will talk. Thin stuff.

  He sure as hell wasn’t going back to Slive until he had something solid, lest the IA man send him off on another wild goose chase.

  Harmon didn’t return to the office. Instead, a six-foot, 250-poundish guy, his blue blazer stretched across his chest and stomach to button once, lowered himself into Harmon’s desk chair and unbuttoned that one button. Another man in a blazer, this one a little smaller but not much, came and stood behind Taylor’s chair.

  The one sitting put the list back on the desk. “We’re pleased to report these bonds are accounted for in our vaults.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Jordan. Director of Bank Security.”

  “How long have they been in your vaults?”

  “They never left.” His face was placid. “We would take any statement to the contrary as a direct threat to this financial institution.”

  “I don’t care what you’d take. You’re lying. Mortelli admitted—” Jordan nodded and the other blazer pulled Taylor out of his seat. He’d been thrown out of a lot of places before, but a bank was new. They had him outside in less than a minute.

  Taylor stood on the sidewalk in front of the granite building with Jordan watching him.

  To Taylor’s surprise, Harmon came out on the sidewalk. “Jordan is a bit rough around the edges, but he is entirely loyal to the bank. Now you know the story. No one will say differently. Mr. Mortelli received a very nice severance package.”

  “I know what I saw. I’ve got the list.”

  “It would be your word against everyone else’s. As I understand it—and don’t let me tell you your business—a reporter isn’t supposed to be his own source on a story. Not the only source, at least. How would anyone know you didn’t make it up? Didn’t you get in trouble for that before?”

  The nine-year-old addict. Story’s going to haunt me forever.

  “The cops must have a record.”

  “The police can’t have a record if the bonds were here all the time.” He lowered his voice. “Do you have any idea what might happen if a story appeared, saying a substantial sum of city bonds wasn’t where it was supposed to be?”

  “I’ve heard this one before. Ford and all of Washington would have proof New York can’t be trusted.”

  “That’s exactly right. I wonder. Do you have a greater responsibility than to one little story?”

  Must be everyone’s hymn now.

  “Not a luxury a good reporter can afford. I’d never write anything.” Taylor opened his mouth, closed it and thought a moment. “Mortelli’s going to get away with it.”

  “If I might be a bit philosophical at this point—philosophical and off the record—there are many things that might be taken care of after a great catastrophe has been averted. This morning’s Times reported the newest revenue projections. Did you read?” Taylor shook no. “The city has enough cash on hand to avoid default until a week from Friday. Eight business days until the guillotine. There is no time left. Washington must act. Good day, Mr. Taylor.”

  Harmon walked past the big security man, who stayed where he was. Taylor left angry, but already convinced there would be no follow-up story on the once-lost bonds. The rest of that tale would remain locked in First National City’s vault until it would only interest historians.

  Early the next morning, Taylor rented a Ford with money he didn’t have at a place on West 36th. Having learned Schmidt was working the seven to three shift, he got to the precinct at 6:30 a.m. The sketchy part was watching the parked patrol cars and catching Schmidt getting into one. He didn’t. He walked off on foot patrol, spinning his Billy club with zeal.

  So much for smart planning.

  Taylor left the Ford behind to collect tickets he also couldn’t afford.

  Two hours later, his feet burned, while Schmidt showed no sign of slowing down. He swung the stick, stopped, smiled, gave directions and asked quick questions at a couple of stores. Twice, Taylor thought handshakes covered cash being passed. Same smile, same swing of the stick, and maybe a flash of green. He wasn’t absolutely sure and wasn’t prepared to stop—losing Schmidt in the process—to try and work an interview.

  The long walk gave Taylor time to think. Last night he’d stopped in at St. Clare’s on the way home. Novak was unconscious and still in critical condition. He’d sat in the hospital waiting room for two hours. Family came and went. He felt too guilty to say anything to them.

  He might have marinated in that guilt for Schmidt’s entire shift, but his brain, probably as a defense mechanism, switched to considering the calls he’d made to sources late yesterday, before the hospital stop. He was trying to figure out something that didn’t make sense. Top Deck was made up of uniformed cops, while protection for gambling and prostitution, at least in the days before 1970, was usually provided by corrupt undercover men. One source suggested the corruption in the Ninth Precinct appeared to be an unintended consequence of the anti-graft campaign. Internal Affairs had done such a good job cleaning out dirty plainclothesman and detectives that the whores and numbers runners were coming under increased pressure from the law. In the Ninth, they probably went to the uniformed officers not so much for protection from arrest but to get intelligence on what the plainclothes guys were up to. Another source also mentioned the cops were probably collecting on assorted violations from retailers—a typical source of graft for those in uniform. His next story wasn’t going to miss a single detail. Even knowing that, the guilt was still t
here.

  Taylor trailed Schmidt down Avenue B, staying on the other side of the street and 20 yards back. To avoid notice, he used shop windows on his side to watch Schmidt’s reflection. Schmidt entered Rosen’s Deli. An Asian man—maybe Chinese, maybe Korean—worked behind the counter. Schmidt and the Asian talked.

  The conversation quickly became animated; the Asian started waving his hands wildly. The Billy club came up, and Schmidt pushed the round end into the middle of the man’s small chest. Schmidt must have been emphasizing points he was making. He poked that same spot as the man continued to gesticulate. Out of nowhere, a woman leapt up and wrapped her arms around Schmidt’s neck. She didn’t stay there long. With one hand, Schmidt whipped her to the ground and brought the club down once, twice. The Asian man put one knee up to come over the counter but found himself with a close-up view of Schmidt’s revolver. The storeowner’s head dropped. He went to the cash register, took out a handful of bills and gave them to Schmidt. The cop left the store swinging the club in neat figure eights.

  Taylor crossed the avenue as soon as Schmidt was at the corner. In the store, the man kneeled next to the woman. Blood poured from her nose and a cut lip.

  “Did you call an ambulance?”

  “No, I … no.”

  Taylor went behind the counter, dialed 911, gave all the details, and came back around. “Put something under her feet in case of shock. Cover her.”

  The man shrugged out of his tattered red blazer and draped it over her. Next he took off his white dress shirt and folded it into a pillow for under her legs.

  “What was the pay-off for?”

  “Three months ago I was caught selling liquor without license. Three months. Still I have to pay one hundred dollar every week. There is no end. It breaks us.” He stared at the woman. “She should have stayed out of it. Now look at her.”

  “Is it always Schmidt?”

  The man came out of his daze and turned to Taylor suspiciously just as his wife moaned. “Who are you? Can’t afford no more trouble.”

  “I’m a reporter. I’m doing a story on corrupt cops here in the Ninth.”